


Eels (with no fear of reeling in)

by Runespoor



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Flirting, Gen, Pre-Relationship, Social Commentary, Spoilers for Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), the eternal question of is it repelling predators or is it attracting mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23218057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Runespoor/pseuds/Runespoor
Summary: A chance meeting and a meeting of minds at the Academy; or an exchange of barbed truths and pleasant lies, at least.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	Eels (with no fear of reeling in)

**Author's Note:**

> based on the prompt: _Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably_

“Dorothea, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” Sylvain says, bowing at the waist as though they were taking a stroll in the gardens instead of sneaking into the entrance hall of Garreg Mach at an illegal hour for a weeknight.

His belt isn’t properly buckled back, his hair is even more tousled than usual. Dorothea knows her own make-up has gone smudged, and she didn’t bother with touching it up; she didn’t expect to meet anyone. They look like people’s expectations of them. 

“I trust you had a good evening?”

Her answering smile is lopsided, her lips smarting with biting remarks.

“My catch was only small fry,” she says, derisive.

Sylvain’s shoulders shake in an artfully crafted display of nonchalant delight as he starts walking with her in the direction of the dorms. It’s a lot of work to counterfeit carelessness that well; if Dorothea wanted, she could mirror his gestures, predict his moves - and without a doubt he could as easily play her part. They're both experts at this game.

“Well, I’m happy with the small fry, but if you’re looking for bigger fish, hey - you never thought of going after one of your housemates?” His smiles widens. “Or - me?”

His eyebrows are comically arched, a second away from waggling.

Another time, Dorothea would laugh back, and they’d engage in a bit of harmless flirtation.

But Dorothea had a bad date, and Sylvain’s hooking up with commoner girls not entirely removed from Dorothea’s own mother, and harmless is just another way of saying power, and Dorothea’s comes at the cost of her exhaustion, at the cost of her sacrificing her longing for something genuine; the sort of feelings Sylvain tricks out of girls who don’t know better and then uses to hurt them.

It’s been a long day, followed by a long, disappointing evening with a disappointing man who waited until after dessert to dump her over parental disapproval.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Sylvain. You’re one of those deep sea fish with a lantern light over your mouth. You lure these girls in, and when they come too close, you swallow them whole.”

Her voice is steady, almost placid; fatigue keeping her heartbeat from racing with adrenaline either.

“Is my Crest the light?” In the semi-darkness of the academy’s corridors, his smile is laced with something bitter.

“Now you’re selling yourself short, and you’re fishing for compliments.” A Crest doesn’t make a heartbreaker; or Lorenz wouldn’t have nearly as much trouble finding tea partners.

“Kinda harsh. I got dumped, you know.”

“Oh?” As she banters, the sound of muffled footsteps reach her ears. “Was it the brunette from the tavern, or the flower girl?”

Not someone in full armor, the sounds are too light for that…

“Wow, you--”

Sylvain cuts himself off when Dorothea stops him from crossing the corner - “I heard something,” she says, and her voice sounds strange to her own ears, distorted with something that only needs a confirmation to become fear.

It’s less the perspective of being caught after hours by monastery staff. that keeps her and Sylvain silent and taut, waiting, than the way the school year’s been going - Flayn’s abduction, Tomas’ disappearance. And she’s tired enough that she has maybe a couple of spells left.

“How good are you with unarmed combat?” she murmurs so her voice won’t carry.

Sylvain grimaces. “Not an option.”

Well, then. 

She can’t blame him for not going out in town with a lance - some of his friends in Blue Lions house rarely let get of their weapon, including Ingrid, but not Sylvain - who’d bring a weapon when they want to take their minds off of things?

There’s two of them, and - Dorothea mimes at Sylvain - only one set of feet, coming steadily in their direction; if it gets to that, they can improvise.

She really hopes they don’t need to.

It’s a complete anticlimax when Seteth turns the corner, and Dorothea lets out the breath she’s been holding.

Despite his lack of candle, he gives no sign that the darkness is giving him much trouble, surely long familiarity with the monastery guiding his steps. Dorothea can make out his preoccupied frown as he walks past them.

Sylvain huffs, and soon enough they’re both chuckling.

“Man, I’m so grateful you stopped me,” he says. “Two minutes and we walked right into him, and whoooo boy, am I glad we skipped the berating. His Highness would’ve talked my ear off.”

Edelgard wouldn’t care, but Dorothea’s not surprised Dimitri would; he’s very proper, and Sylvain’s habits make him stand out among his housemates. She says so.

Sylvain gives a laugh that’s so fake she almost winces.

“See, that’s what I was saying: wow, you pay attention! I didn’t know you were interested.” He flashes his dimples. “In less than a ring, I mean.”

Which he’s not offering; it’s possible he’s worse than Lorenz.

More fun, though.

“You’re not _discreet_ ,” Dorothea reminds him.

“Well, yeah. Isn’t the entire point of bait to be seen?”

“I’m not fishing expert, but I understood the entire point of bait was to catch things, and from what you’re saying, we’re both empty-handed.” She eyes Sylvain. He still looks like his second girlfriend was happy to cheer him up. “More or less.”

“Yet we’re such lovely baits,” Sylvain mourns.

She wants to protest; wants to nuance. A rose, not a bait; thorns, not a hook.

Self-defense, not preying.

But she’s the one who used the metaphor first, and he’d be right to point it out.

“I’ll see you around, Sylvain.”

“Good fishing,” he replies, and in the quiet of the night, the words echo to her ears all the way to her room.


End file.
